


when they part, she is crying

by ohwhatagloomyshow



Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: F/F, Friendship/Love, Gen, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:39:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohwhatagloomyshow/pseuds/ohwhatagloomyshow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm a huge fan of the headcanon that Aurora didn't know what broke the curse until days or weeks later--that she ran from the Woodcutter's Cottage too soon, that the fairies never told her how it would be broken, that Diaval or Phillip or one of the fairies lets it slip that it was True Love's Kiss that woke her. This, then, is how I think she would react to that new-found knowledge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when they part, she is crying

**Author's Note:**

> The thing with True Love's Kiss is that it can be ANY kind of love. I struggle with this film because as much as I see them as flaming lesbians, I ALSO see my relationship with my aunt and my mom and myself in Aurora and Maleficent, so--is this fic about romantic love? I'm honestly not sure. That's why I put both "no warnings" and "underage," because, frankly, it's all how you interpret it.

It takes several crowded moments for her to edge her way back to Phillip: as she passes, they touch at her gown, struggle for her attention to show her a new game, a new flower, and it is only when Balthazar clears the way that she can finally stand, shyly, at his side. 

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” he offers, gesturing to her crown and her dress before presenting his arm, which she takes with ease. He selects one of the smoother paths, well-worn and following the river. “I’m sure you’ll make an excellent queen.” 

She blushes, glances up at him in embarrassed pleasure. “Thank you. I can only hope so. I’m—“ she lets out a little laugh, decides to confess the fear that has bothered her for days, “I’m afraid I’m not at all up for ruling over an entire _kingdom_. The Moors are—are easy, they rule themselves, but I didn’t know _any_ of this until not even a _fortnight_ ago, and I’m not—this isn’t—it’s just—“ Her voice trips over itself several times in her nervousness, in the discomfort at expressing these fears aloud. The panic halts her step, and she continues to babble until finally Phillip takes her other hand, distracting her away from her own mind. She blushes again when she looks up at him, a calming, reassuring look in his eyes. 

“You’ll be _perfect_ , Aurora.” She can’t get over the sincerity and strength of his tone, second only to Maleficent’s own sincerity. It makes her grin that infectious smile, and he drops her hands to, very carefully, brush golden locks behind each ear. She loves the soft caress, the tenderness of it all, and the beauty in his dark brown eyes. 

“You know, I’d very much like to kiss you again.” 

It makes her brows furrow, makes her take a step back, as she always does in surprise. “Again?” 

The word terrifies him. “I’m so sorry, did the fairies not tell you? They—I—I’m sorry. The fairies—I ended up at your chamber, and they told me you were cursed, and said only True Love’s Kiss would wake you, and they—“ 

“I’m sorry? _What_ would wake me?” She remembers the Woodcutter’s Cottage on her sixteenth birthday, the hasty retelling of the glorious and terrible Maleficent dooming her to a sleep like death. But she had run out before they could say any more—their tone, so frantic and still so gloomy, had so easily implied that it would take years to break, if it could be broken at all. She had left at the description of her father kneeling, begging on the floor. It had been too much for her to handle then. 

How she _wishes_ she had stayed, now! She thinks of the nothingness until that warm trickle starting at her forehead and ending in the tips of her toes, waking her and bringing her home. The relief of that silhouette—“Hello, Godmother,” and the tears, the half-remembered nickname and the cool hand on hers. 

How easy it had been, then, to imagine Maleficent revoking her own curse—but she hadn’t. She had _broken_ it. 

With True Love. 

It had been True Love’s Kiss. 

(Fourteen years old and meeting Maleficent for the first time, in her great and terrible beauty. The tour of the Moors, Maleficent cold and silent at her side, the nervousness until that elegant voice prompted her: how did she like the daylilies on this side of the lake? Studying each expression until she could read that sharp face like a favorite novel, the raised eyebrow for interest and encouragement, the twitch of her lips just the tease of a smile—and that _full_ smile, the night with the mud fight! 

The feeling when Maleficent looked at her—like every single part of her being was _seen_ , was seen and known. Her Aunts and their distracted glances that could see right through her, even on their best days. Maleficent’s gifts of little geraniums for her hair after she had mentioned how much she liked them; Maleficent’s ability to recognize, before she even could, that she needed to rest, or to eat and drink. Maleficent’s mentioning of topics from weeks before, with dedicated interest. 

Maleficent’s _love_. And her love.) 

She’s gathering the gold silk in her hands before she has time to breathe; she kicks off her flimsy sandals before she has time to yell a hasty, “Excuse me, Phillip!” over her shoulder as she runs, darts across the path and through the trees. 

She knows what she wants to say but by the time she opens her mouth, she’s screaming something else. 

“ _Maleficent_!” 

~~ 

“ _Maleficent_!” 

It’s startling to hear her name be called after so long—but the voice is high, is beautiful, is feminine and kind and a little desperate, as it has been of late. It shocks her a little and for a second she misses _Godmother_ , but the pleasure of hearing her name in that voice overrides the short sadness. 

“Wonder what she needs _now_.” But Diaval’s tone is pleasant and kind as he leans against the closest oak; she only shrugs and allows herself half a smile, turning towards the echoing voice. It’s not worth it to fly to her; Aurora will find her in no time, as she always does. 

“ _Maleficent_!” Closer now, and the thickness of her voice causes the raven to straighten, to stand, with his arms open and ready to fly. 

“D’you think she’s in danger?” 

“We will soon see,” for there Aurora stands, only for a moment, at the mouth of the clearing. The crown is crooked across her forehead, her hair is wild from the run, her eyes are streaming with tears (also, Maleficent assumes, from the run) over a blotchy pink face. She looks the worst she ever has and it makes Maleficent smile. 

Until Aurora doesn’t smile at the sight of her—only takes a breath to sob once more, and then launches herself. 

She only catches the girl just in time; her tawny wings spread to balance them, to steady them, as Aurora heaves in her arms. Startled, Maleficent can only stroke the back of that tangled head, scratch lightly against her scalp. 

“What is it, Aurora?” This hug is tighter than any has ever been—tighter than the one after the attack in the castle’s foyer, the one that had nearly bruised her ribs. 

She doesn’t have time to care about the damage Aurora does now, because she is released after a final squeeze. Still crying, but smiling now—that beautiful, contagious smile that makes her shine—she brings her hands to cup, so gently and so carefully, around her jaw. The tips of Aurora’s fingers caress her throat, the edge of her jaw, over and over, so softly. And then her thumbs take over, at the base of her cheekbones and under her eyes and near her lips, tender. 

Her blue eyes are no longer filled with tears, and they gaze at her with an almost uncomfortable steady dedication. It makes her raise her hands to those tiny wrists, her long nails just barely touching the pink skin. For a moment she loses herself in Aurora’s touch, in those deep blue eyes. Until those blue eyes close and Aurora’s lips are on hers. 

There is, perhaps, nothing remarkable about the kiss—her mouth is tear-soaked in some places and chapped in others, and it does not move, is simply pressed against her, cups gently around her bottom lip. But that is what makes it miraculous: the stiller they stand the more she can feel her own heartbeat, the more she can feel Aurora’s heartbeat in her wrists and through her lips. She can feel them slow, and speed, and match each other. And she can feel Aurora in the kiss—when Stefan had given his gift and called it True Love, it had simply been flesh on flesh, soft and encouraging. This, the meeting of her lips with that little beastie, connects her to that girl like nothing else. She can feel Aurora behind it. The girl does not have to move, does not have to kiss her anywhere else for Maleficent to feel healing all across her wounds, across her body. This is True Love’s Kiss: the healer, the breaker of curses. 

When they part, after lifetimes, she is crying.


End file.
